Snow day today
I watched the two-day snowstorm this week, and I also watched my high school junior sit diligently at the kitchen table, learning remotely. I thought how I can still remember the school closing numbers for not only Eastern High School but Berlin Community School: 579 and 578.
In a much different time, marked by different media, on snowy days we would get up and turn on the radio and listen as an announcer, over a grainy AM signal, would rattle through the list of schools that had closed because of the snow.
The anticipation built as he went into the 500s. We had looked outside and seen the flakes, thick and white, with no reasonable chance of stopping. We knew school had to be closed.
On those days, often it was. Our expectations would meet up with the meteorological predictions of the previous night, and the announcer would call it for us.
Other days, tragedy. The announcer would run the corner of 570 like a horse on the home stretch: “570, 571, 572, 573, 574, 575, 576, 577…” and then, cruelly, he would skip ahead to “…582, 583.” How could our schools be the only schools that were open?! Woe! Woe!
Some days there was the “tie,” the unsatisfying conclusion. Slush. “577 two hours late,” the voice would utter. Two hours? What could we do with two hours? We were already awake and riled, so we couldn’t sleep in. No point in getting cold and soaked for a mere two-hour snowball fight. None of the adventures of the day could be pursued. Nothing made sense.
Was it worse when we never made it to the numbers? I remember going to bed several times after the news had predicted a big storm–I would be almost as giddy and restless as on Christmas Eve.
I would awaken early. It would always be dark. Something felt wrong–it was too dark. I would creep to the window, draw in a breath, and pull aside the shades. I still recall the scarring sight: The slick, black streets, only damp from some light mist, cast in the wan yellowy lights of the streetlamps. No snow could be seen. There would be school.
Now that we are going through a pandemic, almost everyone has gone through the experience of online learning. Many educators have been predicting that the snow day will be a quaint remembrance, so 20th-century, perhaps.
My teenager certainly didn’t miss a step. He has been fully remote anyway, and on Monday he strode into the kitchen and made himself some toaster strudels and was greeted online, as always, by his enthusiastic teachers and classmates. I do believe in the power and effectiveness of online learning–it’s my career!–and during this wintry week, even those students who chose hybrid learning were working only remotely.
There are now no disruptions to education. No frustrating administrative re-configuring. No family spring break plans changed or school years extended. The school day happens inexorably, and then the kids can go outside at 3:00 o’clock for their fun.
It’s a pity, really.
